There's Rosemary
by PorcupineGirl
Summary: Post-Reichenbach AU: Sherlock wakes up two days after the fall, missing six years' worth of data. As he struggles to reintegrate into his 2011 life with John, John quickly discovers that 2005 Sherlock is not the man he knows. John never thought he'd miss Sherlock's maturity and restraint, until they're gone... (Amnesia fic)


First, there were swirls of sound. Muffled voices, some familiar, some not. He couldn't make out what they were saying.

After some indeterminate amount of time, he heard sounds again and tried to go toward them, to hear them better. He felt like he was fighting his way up through a pool of mud. If he could just break the surface... but he was pulled back down again.

Another period of time passed, with more muffled voices, before he could make another try for the surface. He pushed, and pushed, and this time he broke through. He opened his eyes slowly, heavily, and blinked.

A hospital room. Not terribly surprising given his struggle for consciousness. Pain in his head. That didn't fit, somehow, but he'd worry about that later. One person in the room, sitting by his bed, looking at a magazine. Short man, about 40, light brown hair that was greying around the edges. Not striking good looks, but not unattractive. The man glanced up at him, saw the open eyes, did a double-take and stood up. Something unexpected and unfamiliar flashed through the man's eyes, but he was too bleary to make sense of it before the man started talking.

"Sherlock! Thank God," the man laid a hand carefully on his arm and bent over him. He seemed to be checking Sherlock's pupils - medical training, then. "You've been out for about two days. Can you speak? How are you feeling?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow and focused carefully on the man's face. Definitely unfamiliar, which was completely at odds with the way the man was addressing him. And touching him. Sherlock jerked his arm away from the too-intimate touch. "Who the hell are you?"

The man's brow furrowed. Not the expected response, then - but rather than being disappointed at being forgotten the man showed only concern and slight confusion.

"Sherlock, it's John. John Watson. I'm your flatmate, Sherlock. John. Watson."

Sherlock huffed out a small laugh. "Flatmate? You'll need a better lie than that. I've never lived with anyone and would never want to, nor would anyone ever want to live with me."

The man (_John_, he reminded himself; people are more likely to give you what you want if you use their name) looked like part of him wanted to smile at that, but most of him was just more concerned. He licked his lips and put on a stern, patient face, leaning slightly over Sherlock.

"Okay, I also happen to be your GP, and in that capacity I'm going to need you to answer a few questions for me. First off, what is your name?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but answered. This man clearly believed what he was saying, so either the hospital had let a schizophrenia patient wander into his room, or Sherlock had deleted him for some reason. In either case, it was probably more expedient to play along. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Good, good. Who's the Prime Minister?"

"Blair." John's eyes opened just a bit wider at that, and he took a deep breath. Another unexpected answer, apparently, even though it was clearly correct. How could it not be, if he'd only been unconscious for two days?

"Sherlock, what year is it?"

"2005."

"Shit." John ran a hand over his face and stood up straight. He turned and pulled a mobile phone out of the pocket of the jacket laying on his chair and started typing on it. It was a model Sherlock had never seen before, and looked more advanced than Sherlock's own top-of-the-line model.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm texting Mycroft and Lestrade to let them know you're awake. They're downstairs, they should be here in just a few minutes. Do you know those names?"

Sherlock sneered at the man (_John_). "Of course I know my own brother. I assume he's the one who saw I was overdosing and got the ambulance to my flat in time, and the reason I've got a private room. With no windows, though, why are there no windows? And what's Lestrade doing here? I just met the man two weeks ago, I know I saved him from his own idiocy by solving that case for him but we're not exactly bosom buddies. Why would he visit me in hospital? He's not going to try and arrest me for possession, is he, because I know for a fact there was no cocaine left in my flat."

John simply looked at him with growing concern (possibly well-hidden panic). He blinked a few times, then sighed. "Sherlock, it's 2011. You haven't done cocaine in years."

Again, the man seemed to believe every word he said. Sherlock frowned. "Do you expect me to believe I've been in an overdose-induced coma for six years and magically obtained a flatmate in that time?"

"No," John said patiently, "you've not been in a coma. You've been unconscious for two days. You hit your head. You..." he swallowed, and seemed to have trouble with the next part, "you fell off a building. You don't remember that?"

"No." Sherlock felt his temper rising. He had no idea what this man's game was, but he was quickly losing patience for it. "I have an eidetic memory, _John_, I think I would remember you and I certainly think I would remember falling off a bloody building! And anyhow, I'd have other injuries if I fell off a building, other than my head and a little stiffness I feel fine, no broken bones, no internal bleeding -"

"You fell into a laundry truck," John said angrily. Why would he be angry about that? "You jumped off the roof of this hospital into a bloody laundry truck and you hit your head when you landed wrong. And an eidetic memory doesn't protect you from a bloody brain injury."

Sherlock was saved from having to concoct a witty reply by the arrival of two men at the door. When he saw his brother, he recoiled in shock. "What the hell's happened to you, Mycroft? You've dropped at least two stone in the past week, maybe closer to three."

Mycroft's eyes widened, but John turned to him quickly. "He thinks it's 2005. Doesn't recognize me at all."

Understanding dawned in his brother's eyes. "The last time he was in hospital."

"After the OD, wasn't that?" Lestrade asked.

"And your hair was only half grey just days ago," Sherlock murmured. He could no longer deny the evidence. "It really is 2011, isn't it? I've forgotten six years of my life?"

There was a pause as the three men looked around at each other. It was Mycroft who responded first. "It would appear so."

Sherlock immediately closed his eyes and motioned for the others to leave him alone. "I've got to check on a few things." He folded his hands and entered his mind palace, only to jerk his eyes back open with a gasp. "It's a wreck! The rooms have been rearranged, which is natural given six years' worth of new memories and associations, but every room looks like it's been burglarized." The other three men exchanged worried glances, but Sherlock ignored them and closed his eyes again. He began to pick through the mansion room by room, until - "Bloody hell, this door is locked! Or maybe jammed, I don't know, I can't open it, though." He stopped trying and opened his eyes again. "There was an entire wing through that door. That's good news, though - I don't think the memories have been deleted, just somehow six whole years got shoved into that wing and made inaccessible. But it's just one door. I'll get through it eventually."

John stepped forward. "Sherlock, it may not be as simple as opening a door. You're right, this is probably just a retrieval problem, but it still may take time to get them back. Likely if they do come back, you'll get small things here and there for a while before you get full access back again."

"_Obviously_," he sneered at this stupid little man, "I didn't mean I would literally just break down the door and that's that. I do understand a bit of how the brain works. Now, who's after me?"

"Who's what?" John asked.

"I've been given a room with no windows, obviously for protection, who wants to shoot me?"

John and Lestrade exchanged another look. Sherlock felt a rush of aggravation, and a further surge of annoyance when he realized that this was going to be a regular occurrence - everyone else in the room understanding some context that he had lost. He clearly needed those memories back. Six years' worth of data, his deductions might be worthless without it.

"It's so we can be here, not you," John said. "A man named Jim Moriarty was on the roof with you. He told you that if you didn't jump, he'd shoot me, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. That's, er, she's our landlady. Apparently you knew he was going to do that, and you planned to fake your death." Again, John sounded bitter at this part. Why would he be bitter if Sherlock had saved his life? "When word gets out that you're still alive, the hit men will likely be reactivated."

None of this made any sense. "Who cares if you two can visit me in hospital? Surely there are safer places for you to hide."

"It's so _he_ can visit you, not me," Lestrade told him. "He's your best friend; if you could remember him, you'd want him here, trust me."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he glanced between the two men. "I don't have friends."

Inexplicably, this proclamation filled John's eyes with warmth, a reaction that simply made no sense at all.

"Nah, you've just got one," he replied, sounding amused, as though he were completing an inside joke. Did Sherlock have inside jokes with this man? The way John looked at him was distinctly unsettling. He was unaccustomed to anyone outside of his immediate family looking at him with _that_ worry - not just the kind one has when one sees another person in danger and worries because that's what one does when people are in danger, but a deeper worry that can only be born out of actually caring about the wellbeing of the specific individual one is worrying about. Added to that was a fondness that felt entirely alien to Sherlock, and a respect he'd been given only rarely. It almost seemed as though John might actually be his friend - best friend? Though Sherlock still wouldn't have believed it if Mycroft hadn't been right there. If John were a mental patient, surely Myrcoft would have intervened by now.

"Fine. It's 2011, I tricked a man by pretending to kill myself to save three people - Mrs Hudson, is that Irma Hudson? Death row husband two years - er, in 2003?"

John smiled. "That's her, yes. We live in the flat upstairs from her. She cut you a good deal for helping her out. You remember her, then?"

Sherlock kept his face impassive, though his heart warmed. When he'd met her, she had reminded him of a favorite great-aunt from his childhood who'd long since passed on - except for the fact that she was battered and bruised from Mr Hudson's latest rampage. Her condition had enraged him nearly as much as the case had intrigued him: she was certain he'd killed his own sister, but had no proof, and had finally escaped from the terrible marriage to make sure justice was served. He could certainly do worse than living above her.

"Of course I remember her, I met her prior to 2005. As I was saying, I tricked a man to save the three of you - was he caught?"

"In a manner of speaking," Lestrade answered uneasily, "He, er, killed himself to sure there was no other way for you to save us."

Sherlock blinked. If he was still working on criminal cases - which his association with Lestrade suggested - it was no surprise that he would have made enemies. But someone so desperate to see him dead that he would kill _himself_ and thus never see the fruits of his labors?

"That's insane."

"That's Moriarty." John answered.

Mycroft, who had been surprisingly quiet through this whole exchange, finally spoke up. "We have extensive files on Moriarty and his criminal empire, with which I will of course furnish you to catch you up with the events of the past year and a half. In addition, you had the foresight to record your final conversation with him on your telephone." He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a telephone that looked like none Sherlock had ever seen - there were no buttons at all, only smooth glass. He took it from Mycroft and started in figuring out how to work it as his brother continued. "You may listen to it at your leisure. Rest assured that our best men are tracking down his snipers as we speak, and as soon as they are all disposed of you may return to your flat on Baker Street pending the approval of your physicians."

John glared at Mycroft for no apparent reason. While this certainly endeared him to Sherlock, it seemed out of place. Nothing Mycroft had just said seemed at all offensive.

When Mycroft caught sight of John's glare, he cleared his throat. "It would seem that I owe you an apology, Sherlock. As you will discover as you read the files, I made a... tactical error that made it much easier for Moriarty to corner you. I underestimated him. I know that we do not always get along, but I did not wish to see you hurt. I believed that I was making amends by helping you with your plan to fake your death, but obviously that has not been the panacea we had hoped. I sincerely apologize for my part in your current situation."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "I can't say I'm inclined to forgive you, especially given that I have no idea what it is you did. I want those files immediately, Mycroft."

"You'll have them tomorrow," Mycroft responded, then nodded to the three of them. "If you'll excuse me, I do have work to get on with. I'll be in touch, John."

As his brother left, Sherlock glanced at the other two men. "Are there other files? I should read everything I can about the cases I've solved over the past six years, something might help me get that door open."

"Of course," Lestrade said, "I'll get you whatever I can, Sherlock. Though I've only got the criminal records, but John should have stuff related to the private cases, right?"

"Well, the obvious place to start would be our websites," John held out a hand, apparently for the phone Sherlock was just getting the hang of. He'd found the web browser, which he assumed was what John was going to use.

"What do you mean, _our_ websites?" Sherlock demanded before relinquishing the phone, "I suppose it's not impossible that I've got a website, but why would you have one with information on _my_ cases?"

Strangely, Lestrade laughed at this, but it was John who answered with a fond smile. "_Our_ cases, Sherlock. I help you - well, I follow you around and then post about the cases on my blog. It's gotten quite popular, it's brought in a lot of business."

Sherlock was dumbstruck. "Why would I allow you to follow me around on my cases? That must be incredibly distracting, it's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard. That's more absurd that our being friends! What the hell is _wrong_ with 2011 me?" He was shouting by the end. He knew that he must have a good reason for this - he had a good reason for everything - but the frustration at being told about these seemingly random decisions he'd made, with no context and no memory of his motivation, was too much to take.

John stopped tapping at the phone long enough to put up his hands in a calming gesture. "Look, you invited me along first. You needed a medical expert so that you could avoid a Scotland Yard forensics expert you particularly dislike, Anderson. Do you know him, I mean, did you know him in 2005?"

"Nah, Anderson didn't transfer to my team til '07," Lestrade answered for Sherlock, "But trust me, it was disdain at first sight for those two."

Sherlock had to admit that, if he happened to befriend a doctor, it would be a useful way to avoid the incompetence of the Yard's forensics teams. The explanation made sense, so he let it go. He closed his eyes briefly. He didn't want to admit it, but he was getting tired.

"Look," John said, "we need to get your neurologist in here to check you out, and then you need some sleep. Don't give me that look, Sherlock, this isn't me being a mother hen. Your brain does a lot of restructuring during sleep, including moving short term memories to long term storage." Sherlock couldn't help but notice that John's body took on a distinctly military bearing as he began to give orders. A theory began to form in the back of Sherlock's head - not entirely unsurprising, he had always had a thing for soldiers. "If you want to recover, you're going to need to sleep like a normal person. Even on cases - and I know you, if this lasts for more than a few days you'll want to get back to solving as quick as you can, memory or no. But you'll have to sleep, Sherlock."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock tried to school the confusion on his face into disdain, but was too tired to be entirely successful. "Of course I'll sleep, why wouldn't I sleep?"

John's eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at Lestrade, who only shrugged. "Um," John started, but for the first time he seemed flustered, at a loss for words. "You - er, you, it's just that you usually don't sleep when you're on a case. These days, I mean. I... guess that must be a new policy. Well great then, it won't be a problem. Can't say I'm disappointed."

"Excellent, so you'll be more than happy to get the hell out of my room now so I can take a nap." Considering his guests dismissed, Sherlock rolled away from them on the bed and pulled the blanket up over his shoulder.

"Er, right. Well, glad you're back," Lestrade said, and Sherlock heard him leave.

"I'll go talk to the neurologist, hopefully I can convince her to wait til later to bother you," John said. He lingered a bit, annoying Sherlock immensely. "Sherlock - I'm glad you're all right. This could have been so much worse."

Sherlock heard him set the phone down on the bedside table and leave. Sherlock knew he had likely pulled up their websites in the browser, but he wasn't at all tempted to put off sleep to read them. Not only because he was tired, either - normally, a new technology as advanced as this phone would be intriguing, but now it only served to remind him of how much data he was missing. He had truly been amazed at the simplicity of the buttonless touchscreen, the array of icons leading to a seemingly endless parade of programs better suited to a full-sized computer than a simple mobile phone, the crispness of the tiny display and the thin package it all came in. And yet, no one else in the room so much as blinked at it. What was a marvel to him was everyday to them. Boring. He felt like a savage who thought a television was the devil's magic. It was infuriating, and he knew that this was going to be his regular existence until he could regain access to those hidden memories.

And apparently when he left the hospital it would be to go home with an ordinary, if attractive, stranger. A stranger who claimed to come with him on his cases, to the point of calling them "their" cases. A stranger that their acquaintances believed to be his "best friend," though he had an idea what that was code for. Whatever their status, John clearly held most of the keys to Sherlock's recent life. He doubted he'd be able to talk freely to John while in the hospital - no doubt Mycroft had his room well-surveilled, especially while hunting down this Moriarty fellow's snipers - but as soon as they were back in their flat he would get the chance to engage in some light interrogation... and hopefully other, more pleasant activities that Sherlock believed John would prove to be quite skilled at. Sherlock's imagination explored the possibilities as he drifted to sleep.


End file.
